Top Dead Center
by supercarXS
Summary: A rash of disappearances in the desert prompts the Winchesters to investigate Arizona's infamous blood car legend, but the phantom machine targets Dean and captures him. Sam knows they don't have much time before the blood car kills Dean, but the good news is there's a witness who knows how to find him: The Impala. The bad news? Sam can't understand a word she's saying.
1. Chapter 1

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yay! A sequel! Thanks to everyone who read Ghost in the Machine. Hope you enjoy this one as well. I've been planning it for a while ;) I will be switching between Sam's POV and Dean's POV for this one, so I'd advise paying attention to the names in brackets at the beginning of each chapter.**_

 _ **"top dead center": the furthest point of a piston's travel, at which it changes from an upward stroke to a downward one**_

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE**

 ** _[POV: DEAN WINCHESTER]_**

At exactly 1:03 a.m. cruising at 82 mph on Interstate 10 in Phoenix, Arizona, something happened to the Impala.

There was no warning she was gonna go dark. No splutter of the engine, no burning fluid-smell, no flickering of lights. Sure, I'll admit I nursed a few too many bottles that night, so I guess it's possible I missed something, but still. She just blacked out. Went completely under in a matter of nanoseconds. I slapped a hand down on the steering wheel, foot slipping over the useless gas pedal as the dead car coasted through the desert heat, quiet as a two-ton machine with no power could be.

"Baby?" I fought with the wheel as I tried to drag her over to the shoulder. She didn't have a great turning radius anyway and it was damn near impossible to pull her off the interstate without help. My head buzzed with alcohol and the aftereffects of my recent concussions, and with clenched teeth, I wrestled with the Impala, both feet planted firmly on the heavy brake pedal.

She kinda came back as her tires vibrated through the rumble strips on the shoulder. No lights, no nothin', just her familiar voice in my head. _…Dean?_

I flexed a hand on the wheel. "I'm here."

 _Something's… wrong._ Headlights flickered, failed again. I sat there, trying to collect my thoughts. Had to get flashlight and toolbox from trunk. Call Sam, tell him we'd broken down, and I'd be spending the night on the side of the Interstate, waiting for daylight (and sobriety) so I could fix Baby.

"You good?" I felt around for my phone, found it in the back pocket of my jeans, brought it to eye level and turned the screen on. Huh. Guess the battery was dead. I tossed it onto the seat.

 _I feel… not… right._ The Impala spoke haltingly. She sounded _drugged_.

I straightened up, pressing a palm flat on the cold dashboard. Was my car shaking? Slight tremors ran through her big metal body, vibrating my hand, and my face hardened in concern. "What hurts?"

 _Can't tell._

"Ok. I gotcha." I put a hand on the door, made sure no traffic was gonna sideswipe and kill me, and pushed my way into the heavy Sonoran heat. The ground swayed for a second, but I got it under control by grabbing onto the Impala's doorframe to ground myself. "Hang tight," I said to her, and she just wheezed through her exhaust in response. Fear coiled in my gut; I knew I could fix whatever had gone wrong with her, but nobody likes to see their loved ones in pain.

When I stepped away from her, something strange happened.

I don't know what caused me to look up, but I did, and there it was: and old muscle car parked a few lengths ahead, idling hot with headlights dark. When did that get there? I squinted at the white car, admiring the shape of the low-slung chassis. Flipping through my mental index of cars, I matched it: Pontiac Firebird, if the blood-red phoenix decal on the hood was anything to go by, late-70s body style with a pointed front end and square headlights peering from the honeycomb grille.

I was drawn to it. I took a step, then another and another, crossing the distance on the sandblasted interstate, because there was a magnet inside of me now, coaxing me toward that white Firebird.

 _Dean!_ Behind me, the Impala's motor hitched, failed when it didn't catch. _Dean, don't…!_

I ignored her. The closer I got to the Firebird, the stronger its pull became. It called to me, except it didn't actually speak, not like Baby. I just… felt it there, and I knew it wanted me. My boots crunched over gravel, sand, busted glass, and I stood in front of the Firebird, transfixed by the heat waves radiating from the grille, the hood seams, distorting the moonlit traffic lines on the freeway.

 _No, no, no, driver. Don't do it. Don't listen to it!_

When I touched the Firebird, everything else went quiet. A heavy energy settled over me like a winter blanket, weighing down my shoulders, but not uncomfortably. A new buzz entered my system, like the _just right_ point of being drunk off bourbon, and I felt… calm.

I stepped around the Firebird's grille and went for the driver's seat because I knew it wanted me to.

 _DEAN! NO!_

The Firebird shut its door behind me, locked me inside of it, and I blacked out.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

 ** _[POV: SAM WINCHESTER, 18 HOURS EARLIER]_**

Two things I can't say I really care for are car shows and the desert. And, well, here I was.

My brother was having the time of his life in the driver's seat of his black Impala. As usual, the radio dial had been carefully spun until the local classic rock station snapped into clarity, and now he was pounding on his car's steering wheel in time with the music. I folded my arms, blew through my lips, and stared out the window. There really wasn't much to look at, just sand, sand, and more sand. Oh yeah, and cacti. My favorite.

"Look alive, Sammy." Dean stopped drumming to the Def Leppard long enough to glance over at me. The wheel hissed against his palms, which had me worried for a split second before I remembered he wasn't actually driving. The Impala could handle herself, thank you very much. Dean was behind the wheel more as a formality than anything else.

"Look alive? Dude, it's like four in the morning," I said through a yawn. Even the paper cup of coffee I had clutched in my good hand hadn't helped yet, and I'd downed nearly half of it.

"Seven," Dean corrected.

"Whatever. I'm running off two hours of sleep here. Cut me some slack."

"You're the one who stayed up 'til all hours watching porn." We were in stop-and-go traffic now, and I freaked out for a split second because Dean wasn't even holding the steering wheel and was instead going through a bag he'd stashed on the floorboards.

I exhaled and looked up toward the car's headliner. "I wasn't _watching porn,_ Dean—I was _doing research_. You should try it every once and a while."

He paused for a minute, then snickered, and I bristled under my clothing. As strange as it was to think the Impala was completely sentient, it bothered me even more when I knew she'd made some snide comment about me, a comment only Dean could hear. His face twisted into a grin, the healing gash on his forehead crinkling with the gesture, and I wanted to slap it right off his face.

"Got that right," he snickered out the side of his mouth, then sobered up and caught my gaze in the rearview. "We'll find everything we need here."

"You sure?"

He shrugged. I glared at him.

We eased past a sign: PHOENIX AUTO EXPO. At least we were close to the parking lot. The faster we got through with the car show, the sooner I could head back to our air-conditioned motel room, and… wait a minute. I twisted around in my seat when we came to a fork in the road. "Uh, Dean? Parking lot's back there."

"I know." Dean produced an envelope from the canvas bag and nudged it back under the bench seat. I noticed the cars around us had changed. No more mundane daily drivers. We'd fallen into the tail end of a long line of perfectly waxed classics. I gritted my teeth and looked up the line of eye-piercing cars, and that's when I saw it: EXHIBITOR CHECK-IN, bannered over a cruelly small shed in desperate need of a paint job. Dean opened the envelope, withdrew a piece of paper with the word REGISTRATION in bold letters across the top.

Then it clicked. The obsession with keeping the Impala completely spot-free after we got her back from the body shop a few days ago, desperate searches for car washes _every night_ , a pretty penny spent at the auto parts store on wax and tire shine… it all made sense.

"You _entered_ the car show?!"

He grinned.

"Dean!" I rounded on my brother. "What the hell are you thinking? We don't have time for this!"

"Aww, Sammy, it just wouldn't be right to leave Baby in the parking lot." Dean affectionately patted the dashboard. The Impala responded by picking herself up on her suspension, engine purring, and I rolled my eyes. I couldn't lie, Dean and the Impala were worrying me a little bit. (Is there a word for people who are, uh, _attracted_ to cars? Because I'm pretty sure Dean would qualify.)

I put a hand to my forehead and leaned on it. "Look, I agree this is a good place to look around, but spending all day here probably isn't the best use of our time. The blood car won't be here, Dean."

"Three days," Dean corrected. I resisted the urge to bludgeon my fist into my skull. "First off, you don't know it won't be here. Its last twelve victims had one thing in common: they showed in the Auto Expo." He looked at me in the rearview again. "We have free roam of the blood car's hunting ground, Sammy, and a captive audience of locals who are hip to the legend."

I wanted to point out we could've done that as visitors to the show, but knew the argument was pointless.

Dean was quiet, nodding to himself, deep in silent conversation with the damn car. Hard to think that just two and a half weeks ago, this machine was just that: a machine. Who would've thought our Colorado excursion to kill a skinwalker would result in an earth-shattering revelation that seriously altered a fundamental part of our lives?

Dean relayed, "This was her idea. I just went along with it."

"Thanks, _car_ ," I grumbled. The Impala responded by stopping short, which would've sent me into the dashboard if I hadn't thrown my good arm out and braced my cast across my chest.

Dean shook himself out and said, "I know. I know!" And then turned to me. "She doesn't like it when you call her that."

I threw out my hands. "She doesn't like it when I call her Baby, either! What am I supposed to do?!"

Dean shrugged. So did the Impala with a tilt of the wheels.

* * *

"Don't lean on her!" Dean snapped a rag at me. "You'll fuck up the wax!"

I jerked back, slightly offended and ready to square off against my brother, but he was too busy attacking the Impala's paint with the rag where I'd apparently smudged it. I rolled my eyes and sidled away from the car, debating whether or not I really wanted to take off my light plaid shirt. Even this early in the morning, I could tell already the Sonoran's heat was going to quickly become smothering. Problem was… I wasn't wearing anything underneath. I thought I was being smart when I negated putting on an undershirt because of the heat. Now I regretted it.

Echoing my thoughts, Dean yanked his arms out of his plain gray button-up and slung it through the Impala's open window. Normally, I'd give him shit for stripping down to a ratty tank top, but today I bit my tongue because, well, I was kinda jealous. I focused on rolling my sleeves up as far as they could go.

"Baby says there are some house rules today." Dean shouldered the trunk open, and I got worried for a second because I thought he was going for our weapons stash, but no, he was just hauling our battered metal-sided cooler onto the grass. "You touch her, you clean her. Or she'll gut you."

The Impala laughed at me. I couldn't hear her. But I just knew.

"So. What do we know?" Dean raised a hand in greeting when another old muscle car idled into the slot next to us. "Should be a lot, since you were neck deep in _research_ last night. Tell me, how'd you manage one-handed?"

"Oh, shut it." Yep, I was just about done with him. I lifted the collar of my shirt because I'd already begun to sweat through it. Awesome. I rolled my eyes, collecting my thoughts, and blew through my lips. Dean chuckled to himself and dropped into the grass in the shade of the Impala's fender, easing his back against her. She met him with a creak of the suspension as she gently repositioned herself to support him, and they both waited expectantly.

"Well," I began, unsure of what to do with myself. Did I join him in the shade? Stay standing? Part of me wanted to stay as far away from the black Chevy as I could because it still weirded me out that she was a living entity that could feel and think like I could. The decision was made for me, though, when I heard a searing engine behind me and realized I was standing in the slot a blue Corvette was trying to pull into. I gave an apologetic wave and bit the bullet, settling into the well-groomed grass next to Dean, but I kept myself from leaning on the Impala.

"Blood car." I looked out over the gathering of shiny machines. I didn't understand it, but I could definitely appreciate the care these people put into their cars. "Shows up once a year and that's the last you see of Uncle Joe. It seems to target a certain type of person."

"Car people."

"Yep."

"Guess you're safe," Dean said dryly.

I shrugged. "Probably. So, the person the blood car takes disappears for a week or two, and that's it. Until the body parts start showing up." I made a face and pulled out the newspaper clipping I had folded up in my pocket. "This is from last year. Look at that." I showed Dean the black and white image, which had him squinting at it, eyes narrowed and irises wobbling as he tried to focus in. That made me worry about his concussion all over again. He was still supposed to be on concussion protocol after getting nailed in the head by the skinwalker, but we'd both gotten kind of lax.

"Is that a hacked-off arm?"

"Yep," I said again. "Found off the side of Interstate 10 two weeks after one Todd Harvick disappeared last year. It was his arm," I clarified. "Then they found a foot. And a rib bone. And a chunk of skull…"

"And we're thinking the blood car took him and chewed him up?"

"That's what the legend says," I replied. "And it's not the first time—it's happened every spring for the past twenty-something years. Authorities say serial killer, but the lore says blood car. Nobody's ever been convicted."

Dean nodded to himself. "I'm thinking angry spirit attached to a car for some reason."

"Maybe. I couldn't find any violent deaths related to cars other than accidents, though. Nothing that would really cause something like that." I chewed my tongue. "It would help if somebody knew what model this blood car is. Then we could try to find out who it belonged to. But everyone who sees it…"

"…Gets dead," Dean finished.

"And only the victims actually see it. Nobody else." I breathed out. "So we've got no real eyewitness accounts. Just an urban legend and a couple dozen bodies."

"Might not even be a real car then," Dean said. "Just a manifestation." He furrowed his brow. "When cars die, can they come back as ghosts?"

I figured the Impala would answer that one, so I kept my mouth shut.

"Well then." After a moment, Dean grunted as he hauled himself to his feet. "Saw a bunch of food vendors by the entrance. I'm gonna go pick something up before we get swamped with adoring fans. You comin'?"

I didn't really want to move—save my energy for the heat later in the day—but I also didn't really want to let Dean out of my sight. I might be the one with a cast on a busted arm, but he was the one whose head had been kicked by a hoof the size of a dinner plate. Yep. I was still worried about him.

With some effort, I hefted myself into a standing position, shifting back and forth as blood powered back into my legs. "Where to?"

My brother didn't respond. He was staring out over the showgrounds at the literally hundreds of cars, and he had this weird look on his face: a distant sort of smile.

"Dean?" I walked up next to him, thinking, _shit, the concussion's bad again,_ but then he gave a low whistle. "Check out _Smokey and the Bandit_ ," he said softly. "Now that's a good lookin' car."

"What?"

"That Trans Am." He nodded approvingly. "Like the one from the movie. Wrong color, but still."

"Pretend I don't know what that is."

"See? That white thing over there with the phoenix on the hood." He jerked a head in the direction of the car, but I still didn't see it. Not that I'd be able to recognize it among the literally hundreds of other cars, but Dean was giving me a look. "C'mon, Sammy. I taught you better'n that! It's a Pontiac Firebird!"

"Then why didn't you just call it that?"

"Because it's not _just_ a Firebird, man, it's a…" he trailed off, squinted, and snapped out of his trance. "Huh. Must've moved it," he said under his breath. "Never mind. Let's get breakfast. You," he said to the Impala, thrusting a finger at her. "Don't go anywhere. And no flirting with that Corvette."

She blinked her lights in response.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

 ** _[POV: SAM WINCHESTER]_**

"A smoothie. Seriously." Dean, thighs pressed against the Impala's grille, looked up from the sprawl of papers resting on the car's hood to give me a disapproving side-eye. "All those awesome, artery-clogging, all-American options and you choose a damn _fruit smoothie._ "

"I rest my case." I sipped at the bright orange straw sticking out of the pinkish liquid. It was sweet, it was cold, and it wouldn't cause me to go into cardiac arrest. Dean shook his head and went back to poring over the pages, armed with a Sharpie in one hand and a greasy breakfast burrito in the other. I was kind of shocked—was he actually working on the case? I joined him, but distanced myself to avoid physical contact with the car. "What are you doing?"

"Like we won't be the only ones." A pause, an irritated squint at the map. "Yeah, yeah, you're right. But I can't... dude, help me read this."

I still wasn't great at discerning when he was talking to _me_ and when he was talking to _her_ , so when I didn't respond, Dean elbowed me in the ribs. "Sam! What the fuck does this say?"

I leaned over, followed his finger, found what he was pointing at: a name. "Crew Hawkins," I read. Dean's brow furrowed even further, the purpled scar on his forehead wrinkling, and he dug the end of the Sharpie against his temple. I narrowed my eyes. "You seriously couldn't read that?"

"No, I could've, but my eyes were…" he trailed off, gesturing loosely with a hand. "I dunno. Got a headache. It's bright out here."

"Your head's still jacked from the skinwalker, isn't it?"

The black Chevrolet's body jerked in surprise when Dean brought a fist down on her hood. "My head's always jacked! I'm _fine_." And then, to the car: "Yeah, I am! Will you both quit worrying about me?! You're pissing me off!"

It wouldn't do me any good to push issue, so I pursed my lips, nodded, and changed the topic. "So, you got a plan for finding this blood car or did you just drag me here to torture me?"

"Like I don't have a plan." My brother glared at me, still braced against the Impala's hood. I thumbed the edge of my cast. My forearm itched like hell inside of it. Probably the result of hours of sand and sweat rubbing against my skin. Couple that with the dull ache of the broken bones…

"Sorry, Baby," Dean said, gently patted the hood of his car, straightened up. "She thinks we should talk to the boss man," he said around a mouthful of burrito. "One Clyde—no, sorry. Sorry! Crew Hawkins. He's been running the show for, what?" He swallowed, waited for the Impala's input, then nodded. "Over a decade. If anyone's gonna have dirt on the blood car, I'll bet he will."

* * *

I needed to get a leash for my brother. Literally.

Following Dean around the car show was like tailing a kid on speed through a toy store. Except that toy store was a hundred-degree desert. And those toys were two-ton machines radiating heat to beat hellfire. And the kid was a grown man with serious concussion-induced ADD. In any other situation, I probably would've been amused at the way my brother's face lit up when he laid eyes on cars he liked, but now, it was just aggravating. We were on a case. We weren't here to dick around. And the more we _did_ dick around, the less time we had to keep the blood car from claiming another victim.

"I should just ditch him," I said to nobody in particular. No, that wasn't true. I was talking to the Impala and I knew it. And though I couldn't hear her, I just _knew_ she disapproved even the mere thought of me leaving Dean alone. Besides, we didn't know what we were dealing with. I was probably capable of taking down the blood car on my own, but I was just one guy with a busted arm. Might take a lot more than that to end it.

"Where are you taking me?" I finally asked. We closed on a complex in the middle of the showgrounds, a concrete monstrosity resting on a steel skeleton with the words FINISHLINE CONVENTION CENTER displayed over the doorway. Dean ignored me and made a beeline for the doors, and we busted inside.

"Oh, thank God." Cool air blasted me in the face when we passed the threshold. The low hum of the HVAC system droned in the background and I barely resisted the urge to strip and let the conditioned air sap the heat from my sweat-soaked skin. Then I realized I'd lost Dean. Great. There was so much activity in here—a few show cars, vendors selling car parts, signs, prints, die-casts, and was that a beer garden in the corner?

Luckily, Dean hadn't made it too far. I found him drooling over a gleaming chrome motor mounted on a brightly-colored engine stand. "Boss 302," he breathed. "Where's the rest of the Interceptor?" And when I gave him a blank look, he rolled his eyes and said, "Dude. _Road Warrior_?"

I shrugged.

"That's it. We're having a car movie marathon. This is just pathetic."

"Focus," I said sternly.

"Broken record, you two," Dean grumbled. "I'm focused. We're looking for—" He broke off, got this look on his face, and ran off again. I sighed and started after him.

"I'm serious about the leash thing," I said. The Impala probably agreed with me.

* * *

When I caught up to him, I almost tackled him. He'd managed to find another distraction, except this one wasn't a car: it was a girl. She was parked behind a plastic folding table, and even without hearing their conversation, I knew what was going on: he was leaning on the table with both palms planted against it, and she was sitting legs crossed, one arm folded under her breasts, the other idly twirling a pencil. They were both laughing. Flirting, more like. Awesome.

"And this grump is my little brother, Sam." Dean jerked his head my direction when I fell in beside him. "He let me talk him into roadtripping to all these car shows so he could help me write my article."

Annoyed as I was, I fell into character. "Yep," I said, glaring at him out of the corner of my eye. "Little did I know that meant ogling cars more than actually writing."

"All in the name of research," Dean said proudly. "Sammy, this is Daytona. She's Crew's daughter."

She _was_ pretty cute, I'll give her that. "Nice to meet you," I said, shaking her offered hand. "I'm sure Dean already told you, but we'd really like to interview your father…"

"I don't even know why that man owns a phone," Daytona grumped, sweeping a strand of dark hair out of her face. "I've been calling him for, like, the last hour. He never gave me the computer I was supposed to use for signups, so I've been doing everything by hand." She nudged a notebook toward us with the edge of her pen. ''And I can't read half these guys' writing. So, yeah. If you find my dad, tell him he sucks."

"Can I see that?" Dean pointed at the spiral-bound.

"What, you wanna sign your life away too?" Daytona shrugged. "Just remember, bud—you wreck your car, that's on you."

"Trust me. She won't let me." Dean grinned slyly as he picked up the pen Daytona offered him and began to write. (His handwriting certainly wouldn't be used as an example in a kindergarten workbook, but I noted he worked slow enough for his letters to maintain their intended shape. Either that, or he was struggling to write as he had been to read. I almost offered to fill out the rest but decided not to bruise his pride.)

"So. Uh." I cleared my throat, tapped my foot. "What exactly are you signing up for?"

"Time Attack," Dean quipped.

Daytona looked to me and explained. "It's a race against the clock. We've got a course set up behind the con center. Whoever makes it through the fastest without taking out a cone wins $1500 cash. We try to keep it fair, so we won't put a '55 Chevy in the same class as a Lambo, you know what I mean?" She nodded at the notebook Dean was working in. "Speaking of which, what've you got in the show? I'll get you a slot on the grid."

"'67 Impala," Dean beamed. "And she's _all_ cherry."

Something strange happened then. Daytona's face went hard, and had I not spent most of my life getting good at reading people, I would have never noticed the slight gasp that lifted her breastbone. Immediately, I furrowed my brow and said, "Something wrong?"

"What?" Daytona absently raked her dark hair behind her ear again. "Oh, hell. It's just…" She put both forearms on the table, folded her hands, and leaned toward us. "That means you're in the American Classics Class."

Dean nodded slowly. "Yeah…?"

"Sorry. It's… shit." She breathed out, got a sort of distant look in her eye. "It freaks me out, man."

I tilted my head. "What does?"

"Well, there's this…" Daytona waved a hand in the air, looking up, trying to pull her next words into existence. "I don't know, really. Us locals call it a curse."

My brother and I exchanged a look. "Curse?" he asked.

"Yeah." Daytona swallowed, dropped her voice. "Every year, someone in the American Classics Class is chosen to die."


	4. Chapter 4

**_A/N: Don't ever take 21 credits and try to hold down a job. Just don't._**

* * *

 **CHAPTER FOUR**

 ** _POV: DEAN WINCHESTER_**

Good food, gleaming cars, and now I had a legitimate excuse to keep talking to the hot chick? If I didn't know better, I'd've said Heaven made landfall in Arizona.

Right now, Daytona's eyes kept flicking between me and my brother over and over. She was checking us both out in a certifiably non-subtle way. I knew the look. It was a look of borderline confusion, like she couldn't wrap her head around the fact that my brother and I were actual human beings that existed. Not to sound vain, but I know it's true—he and I hit the genetic lottery when it came to good looks. Thanks for the advantage, Mom and Dad!

 _So,_ the Impala said dryly from her corner of my brain. _She a Sam Girl or a Dean Girl?_

I was pretty sure I knew the answer, but damn right I intended to find out for sure.

 _Oh, Lord._

"Chosen to die?" Sam asked. I saw the gears clicking in his head as he debated the best angle of attack. "By _who_?"

My mild irritation at my brother for stealing Daytona's attention quickly vanished as she appeared to make a decision and settled on staring at me. Or more specifically, the anti-possession sigil inked just below the left side of my collarbone, which made her lean forward, which made it way too easy to steal a glance down her shirt …

 _Behave yourself, Dean,_ the Impala scolded.

If Daytona noticed I was staring at her boobs, she didn't seem to care. "The blood car," she breathed. She was either excited about or terrified of the evil machine. Couldn't tell. Didn't really care. She wore some kind of stone on a leather cord around her neck, and it was thumping her chest _just_ right as she moved …

 _DEAN!_

Apparently, Sam and my car were on the same wavelength because he thumped me on the shoulder. I gave my head a violent shake to clear it and was about to get after him, but he talked right over what I never said. "Hey! I think we read about that," he said, feigning excitement. "It was on that urban legend site, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," I murmured, distracted. "That story about the car that kills people."

"The blood car's not a story," Daytona cut in, almost like she was offended. "It's _real._ And it doesn't just kill people. It … it fucking _eats_ 'em."

"Have you seen it?" I asked at the same time Sam said, "What do you mean, it eats them?"

" _Daytona!"_

As one, Sam and I turned to face the new voice behind us. My palm grazed my hip and the handle of my hidden knife; the muscles along Sam's good arm pulled his hand into a fist. Daytona swore under her breath and ducked her face.

The man approaching us was heavyset but not overweight, and though I had trouble pulling him into focus against the brightness from outside, I could tell his face had familiar angles. Then I realized he kinda looked like Daytona. Which meant …

"You must be Crew Hawkins." Sam fanned out his good hand and offered it to the man. "I'm Sam, and this is my brother Dean. We were wondering—"

"'Scuse us a minute, boys. I need to talk to my daughter," Crew said sharply, glaring at Daytona. Her shoulders dropped and she forced a smile as she stood and followed her dad. Sam and I backed off a bit, respecting their privacy but trying to eavesdrop..

"It makes sense," Sam said out of the corner of his mouth. I didn't respond, just looked at him with expectant silence, prompting him to continue. He saw me staring dumbly at him and gestured loosely with a hand. "You know, the blood car eating its victims. Probably why they've never found more than a few chewed up body parts here and there, and why the cuts are never clean."

"So, what, we're looking for a car that runs on human flesh instead of gasoline?"

My brother lifted a shoulder. "Guess so."

 _Better watch for suspicious leaks,_ said the Impala from her mental parking spot, only half-kidding. _You see a pool of red beneath a car, don't assume it's automatic transmission fluid._

"She obviously knows something," Sam said, jerking his head toward Daytona. "Whatever it is, I don't think Crew wants it out."

"Huh," I said. Crew was obviously scolding his daughter, and Daytona responded with animated arguments. I just wished I could hear what was being said. She was cute when she was mad. I wondered how good my odds were with her, which was met with a wave of irritation from the Impala. Why did she care? Not like … oh, shit, was my car _jealous_?

 _I've nothing to be jealous of,_ Baby said coolly. _You always come back to me._

* * *

So we didn't seem like total creepers, Sam and I migrated over to a loose grouping of empty tables inside the convention center. He kept an eye on Daytona while I leafed through an auto magazine somebody had left behind. It was called _Wheelspin_ and I was really getting into a photo essay about the care and keeping of chrome trim when Sam lightly socked my arm. I looked up and saw Daytona striding back toward us, slightly red in the face, but determined in her stride.

"It's white, I'm pretty sure. At least, that's what a lot of victims said before … you know." Daytona touched her fists together, then sprawled her hands while pantomiming the word _poof_ , completely deadpan.

She was a worthy distraction from _Wheelspin,_ so I slid the magazine to the side and leaned forward on my hands, showing her my profile. Sam beat me to my unspoken question, though. "What's white? The blood car?"

"Yep," Daytona quipped, looking back over her shoulder. Her father was walking away, distracted by a couple young kids wearing bright green shirts with the word VOLUNTEER inked on the back. Looking slightly uncomfortable, Daytona scratched at the back of her head and turned back to us. "That's all we really know. The color, I mean. It's the only thing anyone can agree on."

 _One would think a blood car would be red,_ Baby mused.

"Look, guys. I really want to help you, but Dad told me to shut up about it, basically. See, he, uh … one of our …" Daytona suddenly looked very small, twisting the end of her hair. Over the table, Sam and I shared a knowing glance over her head. She was grieving.

Daytona took in a breath that made her whole body shudder, then steadied herself. "It chose one of our friends a couple years back. Dad's still pretty tore up about it, so …"

"He doesn't want to perpetuate the legend," Sam supplied.

"Yeah. Exactly." Daytona looked up, eyed both of us, but mostly me, but then she drew herself up. "Personally, I think we should do everything we can to get it out there. Maybe someone'll figure out how to get rid of the blood car for good." She blew through her lips. "Your article could really help. Can I give you a call later? Bunch of us usually meet over drinks downtown every night of the show. Might find a couple good sources."

"Call me whenever you think of me," I said with a wink. I almost heard the groan in Sam's head.

Daytona laughed, slightly put off. "Oh … wow … thanks." Clearing her throat, she went on. "The guys'll give you something to work with, I promise. And me, too, soon as Dad's out of my hair."

I shot her my best charming smile. "Keeping our rendezvous secret from Daddy. Now that's something I can work with."

* * *

"So. What's white, made of metal and feasts on human flesh?"

My brother and I strode out into the heat, much to his dismay. He frowned and added, "Sounds like the start of a bad joke."

 _Or a dirty one,_ said the Impala.

"Yep," I replied to both my car and my brother. I flicked my wrist to get a good look at my watch, squinting against the glare. We had a few hours to kill before our turn on the Time Attack chopping block, and as far as I was concerned, we were pretty dead in the water until we could sit down and have a meaningful chat with Daytona's buddies. "At least we know the thing's got a type."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, deep in thought. He was in auto-pilot, blindly following me. On purpose, I led him through a winding maze of brightly colored Italian supercars just to see if he would still tail me. He did, and as we continued our stroll through the show, he lifted the collar of his shirt and said, "There has to be a connection. Why did all the victims own American classics? That's gotta mean something."

"Lots of people have fetishes for old American cars," I said with a sniff.

Sam shot me an odd look, then dismissed it with a shake of the head. "It means something," he repeated, more firmly this time. "Dean, can you find out about the cars? See if there's a connection, you know, if they're all the same make, model, came from the same lot—anything that would explain why a spirit is going after them."

"So you think it's a spirit."

"You got a better idea?"

"Yeah. Decepticon."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm gonna make some calls to local law enforcement. See if I can't come up with a definitive list of victims." He held up his phone and pointed at it meaningfully. "You watch yourself, ok? Call me if you need."

 _Don't fight it,_ the Impala said firmly. _Let him worry about you._

I pursed my lips and gave a tight nod. "Sure. Regroup in an hour?"

"Give or take," Sam said, buried himself in his phone, and turned to walk away.

I really wished he hadn't.

I'm not really sure what the hell happened. I moved to head back in the direction of the Impala, aiming to talk to some of the American Classics guys, and then the car was just … there. I never heard it. Never even saw the damn thing. Not until its nose was buried in my thigh.

Seething metal hissed inches from my nose. I threw my arms out to keep my face from smacking the car's hood but was rewarded with a dull _crunch_ of the wrist and a heavy _smack_ as my elbows met machine. My forearm dragged over something sharp, breaking skin and I tried to jerk back but in doing so I lost my grip and oh shit my head not my fucking head _again_ oh please I don't want another concussion—

Must've blacked out.

I was on the grass.

There were tire marks. They stopped right before me.

My arm hurt. I looked at it. There was a small cut, a bruise starting to form.

It looked like a Pontiac logo.


End file.
